The Lake*

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
* Edgar Allan Poe

There is nothing quite like being able to write and live beside the water. Some writers need the isolation of the mountains, others thrive on the bedlam of a large metropolis. But me, my soul and I, the fluidity and depth of water calms and inspires.

On this Halloween morning, there is nothing quite like Edgar Allan Poel to bring out the darkest side of water.